Debbie Macomber - Trading Christmas - When Christmas Comes / The Forgetful Bride

No one was there.

He stuck his head out the door and glanced in both directions.

No one.

Then he noticed a plate of decorated cookies sitting on the porch. They were wrapped in red cellophane, which was tied with a silver bow. His first instinct was to pretend he hadn’t seen them. At the last second, he reached down, grabbed the plate and slammed the door shut. He turned the lock, and leaned against the wall, breathing fast.

He was in the wrong Leavenworth, but he might as well be in prison, since he wouldn’t be able to leave the house, or even open the door, for fear of being ambushed by Christmas carolers, cookies and children.

Not exactly what he’d had in mind…

Six

Bernice Brewster was beside herself with frustration. For two days she’d tried to reach her son Charles, to no avail. He refused to use a cell phone and the one she’d purchased for him sat in a drawer somewhere. She was sure he’d never even charged the battery.

Growing up in Boston, Charles had been fascinated by history, particularly the original Thirteen Colonies. Now look at him! Granted, that interest had taken him far; unfortunately it seemed to be his only interest. If he wasn’t standing in front of a classroom full of students—hanging on his every word as she fondly imagined—then he was buried in a book. Now, it appeared, he was writing his very own.

Why, oh why, couldn’t her sons be like her friends’ children, who were constantly causing them heartache and worry? Instead, she’d borne two sons who had to be the most loving, kindest sons on God’s green earth, but… The problem was that they didn’t understand one of the primary duties of a son—to provide his parents with grandchildren.

Bernice couldn’t understand where she’d gone wrong. If there was anything to be grateful for, it was that Bernard hadn’t lived long enough to discover what a disappointment their two sons had turned out to be in the family department.

Charles was the younger of the two. Rayburn, eight years his senior, lived in New York City and worked for one of the big publishers there. He insisted on being called Ray, although she never thought of him as anything but Rayburn. He was a gifted man who’d risen quickly in publishing, although he changed houses or companies so often she couldn’t hope to keep track of where he was or exactly what he did. At last mention, he’d said something about the name of the publisher changing because his company had merged with another. The merger had apparently netted him a promotion.

Like his younger brother, however, Rayburn was a disappointment in the area of marriage. Her oldest son was married to his job. He was in his midforties now and she’d given up hope that he’d ever settle down with a wife and family. Rayburn lived and breathed publishing.

Charles, it seemed, was her only chance for grandchildren, slight though that chance might be. He was such a nice young man and for a while, years ago now, there’d been such promise when he’d fallen head over heels in love. Monica. Oh, yes, she remembered Monica, a conniving shallow little bitch who’d broken her son’s heart. On Christmas Eve, yet.

What was wrong with all those women in Boston and New York? Both her sons were attractive; Rayburn and Charles possessed their father’s striking good looks, not that either had ever taken advantage of that. Bernice suspected Rayburn had been involved with various women, but obviously there’d never been anyone special.

Sitting in her favorite chair with the phone beside her, Bernice wondered what to do next. This was a sorry, sorry state of affairs. While her friends in the Arizona retirement community brought out book after book filled with darling pictures of their grandchildren, she had nothing to show except photos of her Pomeranian, FiFi. There were only so many pictures of the dog she could pass around. Even she was tired of looking at photographs of FiFi.

Bernice petted the small dog and with a brooding sense that something was terribly wrong, reached for the phone. She pushed speed dial for Charles’s number and closed her eyes with impatience, waiting for the call to connect.

After one short ring, someone answered. “Hello.”

Bernice gasped. The voice was soft and distinctly female. She couldn’t believe her ears.

“Hello?”

“Is this the residence of Charles Brewster?” Bernice asked primly. “Professor Charles Brewster?”

“Yes, it is.”

Of course it was Charles’s condominium. The number was programmed into her phone and Bernice trusted technology. Shocked, she slammed down the receiver and stared, horrified, at the golf course outside.

Charles had a woman at his place. A woman he hadn’t mentioned to his own mother, which could mean only one thing. Her son didn’t want her to know anything about this…this female. All kinds of frightening scenarios flew into her mind. Charles consorting with a gold digger—or worse. Charles held hostage. Charles… She shook her head. No, she had to take control here.

Still in shock, Bernice picked up the phone again and pushed the top speed-dial button, which would connect her with Rayburn’s New York apartment. He was often more difficult to reach than Charles. Luck was with her, however, and Rayburn answered after the third ring.

“Rayburn,” Bernice cried in near panic, not giving him a chance to greet her.

“Mother, what’s wrong?”

“When was the last time you spoke with your brother?” she demanded breathlessly.

Rayburn seemed to need time to think about this, but Bernice was in no condition to wait. “Something is wrong with Charles! I’m so worried.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“I am,” she cried.

“Now, Mother…”

“Hear me out before you Now, Mother me.” The more she thought about a strange woman answering Charles’s phone, the more alarmed she became. Ever since that dreadful Monica had broken off the relationship… Ever since her, he’d gone out of his way to avoid women. In fact, he seemed oblivious to them and rejected every attempt she’d made to match him up.

“Your brother has a woman living with him,” she said, her voice trembling.

Silence followed her announcement. “Mother, have you been drinking hot buttered rum again?”

“No,” she snapped, insulted he’d ask such a thing. “Hear me out. I haven’t been able to get hold of Charles for two days. I left messages on his answering machine, and he never returned a single call.”

Her son was listening, and for that Bernice was grateful.

“Go on,” he said without inflection.

“Just now, not more than five minutes ago, I called Charles again. A woman answered the phone.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “She had a…sexy voice.”

“Perhaps it was a cleaning woman.”

“On a Monday?”

“Maybe it was a colleague. A friend from the History Department.”

Bernice maintained a stubborn silence.

“You’re sure about this?” Rayburn finally said.

“As sure as I live and breathe. Your brother has a woman in his home—living there.”

“Just because she answered the phone doesn’t mean she’s living with Charles.”

“You and I both know your brother would never allow just anyone to answer the phone.”

Rayburn seemed to agree; a casual visitor wouldn’t be answering his brother’s phone.

“Good for him,” Rayburn said with what sounded like a chuckle.

“How can you say that?” Bernice cried. “It’s obvious that this woman must be completely unacceptable.”

“Now, Mother…”

“Why wouldn’t Charles tell us about her?”

“I don’t know, but I think you’re jumping to conclusions.”

“I’m not! I just know something’s wrong. Perhaps she tricked her way into his home, killed him and—”